The Troutbeck Testimony

by Rebecca Tope

  And the only person Simmy could depend upon to agree that this was the highest priority; who would cut through the smokescreens and diversions to concentrate on what really mattered, was young Ben Harkness. If she knew Ben, he’d be back in the shop the next morning, hovering around until she closed up at lunchtime, and then bombarding her with his latest theories.

  Then she remembered his new infatuation with Bonnie. Would that mean he forgot all about the police investigation into the murder? Would he arrive early next day and devote all his attention to the girl, ignoring Simmy in the process? It seemed all too likely, she decided gloomily.

  Well, then, she would just let it all go as well. She’d take the flowers to the hall where the wedding reception was to be, and then deliver the bouquets and buttonholes to the house, and after that there were orders and stock, displays and future plans to think about. Summer was coming, which ironically could sometimes spell slow business for a florist. With gardens and hedges so awash with blooms, people felt less inclined to buy their own from a shop. If they wanted a table centrepiece or a colourful vase of flowers in their hall, they could go out and gather it for themselves, for free. Simmy and Melanie had discussed this at length, and concluded there was a need for lateral thinking. Hanging baskets, window boxes – the more flamboyant the better – could be part of the stock in the shop. Restaurants could be approached with ideas for summer displays, indoors and out. ‘They’ll pay you to do their thinking for them,’ said Melanie. ‘Especially if you offer to hang the baskets and position the boxes as well.’ It would all involve more work and, she hoped, a steady income.

  Such forward-looking thoughts served to cheer her considerably. Life would go on; she would avoid self-pity as she would a virulent virus – and she would use that phrase to tease Ben, if she remembered. Or perhaps her father, who enjoyed wordplay. Even if he never fully regained his old ways, he was always going to have fun with puns and the more arcane aspects of grammar.

  She went to bed early, and dreamt confusedly about dogs at a funeral, chasing a boy with large ears and entangling their leads round Simmy’s legs. One of them was Bertie, who hugged himself tightly against Russell Straw’s legs and flinched at every approach. There was no barking or whimpering, just exuberant behaviour. The boy climbed into the church pulpit and threw hymn books down at the dogs. When she woke, she remembered the slapstick scene with amusement. Where had all that come from, she wondered?

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  She described the dream to Melanie, who turned up promptly on Saturday morning, explaining that she could only stay an hour, and would handle any new orders, as well as checking the stock for flowers that needed to be replaced.

  ‘I have no idea who the boy was,’ Simmy mused. ‘I’d never seen him before. He had ears like great flat mushrooms. Nobody in real life would have ears as big as they were.’

  ‘Something you’ve heard somewhere,’ Melanie said idly. ‘I never think dreams mean anything in particular.’

  It came to Simmy then. ‘My mother – she said there was a boy with big ears behind her at the funeral. She thought Valerie was looking at him and his dad when she had her meltdown thingy. I bet that was it.’

  ‘Probably Raymond Eccles, then. Bonnie said she’d seen him.’

  ‘Raymond … where have I heard that name recently? Who is he? A boy at school with Bonnie or something?’

  ‘He’s a bad lad, from a bad family. Corinne fostered him for a bit, which is how Bonnie knows him.’

  ‘Right! She said something about him yesterday. The father’s been in prison.’

  Melanie was concentrating on the computer. ‘He’s not interesting. Can’t imagine why anybody would dream about him,’ she said.

  Wriggly little ideas were happening in Simmy’s head, ideas that threatened to become questions and then theories. They were very small and very new, and a careless word might flatten them, but they began to connect together in a picture that demanded attention. Was this how Ben’s head felt all the time, she wondered, and then recalled herself wondering the same thing a few days ago. For some reason, Simmy’s mind had been a lot more creative lately, tying things together and forming unsettling conclusions.

  She clamped her lips together, afraid of Melanie’s scorn. She needed Ben. He would listen and take her seriously. If she was leaping to foolish conclusions, he would explain her lack of logic. He would also make suggestions as to how the hypothesis might be tested – even if such suggestions might turn out to be reckless or even dangerous.

  But Melanie could not be ignored. She had talents all of her own. ‘Um … Mel. You know that Travis man who was killed …?’

  ‘Not personally, but yes. I know who you mean.’

  ‘It’s right, isn’t it – he’d never been in trouble with the police. Never done anything that would make people hate him. Isn’t that what everybody’s saying?’

  ‘Pretty much, yeah. Why?’

  ‘Just wondering. It seems so horrible that he should die like that, for no reason anybody can see.’

  ‘Since when were the reasons obvious? What about the lady in Ambleside, and the man in Coniston? Nobody could understand why they were killed, either.’

  ‘True, I suppose.’ Her questions had taken her off track. She tried to formulate another. ‘How old did they say his boy is?’

  ‘Twelve, thirteen. Something like that.’

  ‘So Raymond Eccles is older?’

  ‘Sixteen, I’d guess. But he’s small for his age. What’s all this about, Sim?’

  ‘Nothing. Just getting the picture straight, that’s all.’

  Melanie looked up from the screen and gave Simmy a close scrutiny. ‘What are you thinking? What’s this about boys?’

  ‘Nothing – I told you. I’m going to deliver those wedding flowers now. Can you hang on till I get back? It won’t be later than ten-thirty.’

  ‘No problem,’ sighed Melanie.

  The wedding was to take place in the register office at Kendal, and then back to a village hall at Ulverston. Simmy had to drive the ten miles down to the pretty hall, setting out an arrangement for each of the eight tables, as well as positioning a large display near the door to welcome the guests as they came in. ‘Keep it simple,’ the bride had ordered. ‘I’d like it to look like an old-fashioned homespun affair, if you know what I mean. As if the local girls had gone out and gathered flowers from the hedgerows. Forsythia, jasmine, honeysuckle – that sort of thing.’ As usual, Simmy found her customer blissfully unaware of the seasons, and what might be found in a May hedgerow. All the same, it was a pleasing assignment, and she was proud of the results.

  Having garnished all the tables as requested, she drove back to Craig Walk where she was to deliver posies and buttonholes as well as the bridal bouquet. It was a pleasant road, to the east of the main street through Bowness, the terraced houses made of the same dark stone as almost every other building in the town. Mrs Jennings, soon to become Mrs Moffat, opened the door, looking calm and cheerful. Simmy recalled other brides, with their hair in rollers and their eyes wild with panic, and smiled. ‘You’d better have a look and make sure they’re what you wanted,’ she said.

  The woman opened the large flat box and fingered the contents. ‘They smell heavenly,’ she breathed.

  ‘That’s the freesias,’ said Simmy. ‘I’ll go and get your bouquet now.’ She went back to the van for the last of its contents, and took the carefully wrapped arrangement into the house.

  ‘Lovely,’ said the bride. ‘Absolutely perfect. Was everything okay at Ulverston?’

  ‘Fine. There wasn’t anybody there, but the door was unlocked.’

  ‘The caterers will be in and out, I suppose.’ A small frown of worry appeared. ‘Nobody’s going to go in and wreck it, are they?’

  ‘Of course they’re not,’ said Simmy emphatically. ‘Who would do that?’

  ‘You’re right. It’s awful the way we’re all so uptight about security, isn’t it. Imagine in Hardy�
��s day, anybody even having such an idea.’

  ‘Hardy?’

  ‘Thomas. I told you – I wanted to try to imitate the kind of wedding you find in his books.’ She laughed. ‘Although it’s all fallen apart a bit, without a church service. And everybody driving from Kendal to Ulverston in cars. All the same, you must admit I’ve bucked the trend for fancy hotels and hours of drinking. Not to mention the disco.’ She shuddered. ‘I’ve always hated discos.’

  ‘Didn’t they dance in Hardy?’ Simmy had a faint memory of a book they had to read at school. ‘Something about the “greenwood” tree.’

  ‘We’ve got a band of Morris Men coming.’ The frown was back. ‘I told you that as well.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Simmy. ‘I’m sure you did. Back when you ordered the flowers.’ Six weeks ago, she wanted to add. ‘So, good luck with it all. Have a lovely day. I’ve got to get back …’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mrs Jennings, warmly. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job. I’ll come in and pay next week, shall I?’

  ‘Wait till I send the bill,’ laughed Simmy. ‘Bye, then.’

  She was back in the shop dead on half past ten, rather to her own surprise. The whole trip had taken an hour and ten minutes, which she felt was an achievement in itself on a Saturday morning. The presence of growing numbers of holidaymakers had sent her in a looping diversion through quiet streets, avoiding the busy heart of Bowness.

  Melanie was impatiently waiting to leave. ‘How did it go?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine. Why are you in such a rush?’

  ‘Lots to do,’ said the girl. ‘I really won’t be able to fit you in after this, Sim. It’s all taking off with the hotel stuff. I’ve got a second interview in Grasmere this afternoon. They phoned yesterday. I’m all behind with everything. You’ll have to make do with Bonnie. Wasn’t she meant to come in today?’

  The breathlessness was irritating. ‘I think she was, yes. Up till one o’clock, she said. Gosh, Mel, yesterday was such a mess. I went to Ninian’s after work and Corinne was there. I never knew they knew each other.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Melanie was almost out of the door, and plainly in no mood for any further chat. Simmy had a premonition of how much she would miss her, with her undisguised interest in everybody’s lives and loves. Melanie had provided support, advice and good sense, more like a mother than somebody young enough to be Simmy’s daughter.

  ‘One more thing,’ she said, wanting to grab the girl’s arm. ‘If Ben and I get any more gen on the murder, do you want to be kept informed?’

  ‘Gen?’

  ‘You know what I mean. Information. Ideas. Well, do you?’

  ‘Not really.’ Melanie shook her head. ‘I think it’s time I let all that go. It was fun for a while, working with you. And I’ll call in and see you, one morning next week. But now – sorry, but I’m really going. Be nice to Bonnie. You won’t regret it, I promise. She’s a lot cleverer than me. She has a good heart, deep down. Don’t judge her too harshly. You don’t really know her yet.’

  And she was gone, trotting down the street, large and determined, heading for her new life.

  Two customers came in, ten minutes apart, the second one a middle-aged woman browsing unhurriedly. Simmy was jangled by Melanie’s departure and its lack of ceremony, as well as restless at the implications of her involuntary theories about what had happened in Troutbeck on Tuesday. Images from the week flitted through her head, like stills from a movie, run together to form an increasingly compelling narrative. But it remained a narrative with several holes in it, and a conclusion that would shock almost anyone who heard it.

  Where was Ben when she needed him? When the customer finally left with a small bunch of very undramatic carnations, Simmy was tempted to give the boy a ring. Despite his imminent exams, not to mention his family, she felt entitled to his attention. Everything was in suspense without him. She had no idea what she might do on her own, but with Ben’s encouragement, anything was possible.

  At last, just before eleven-thirty, the door opened and two youngsters came in. Simmy had her back to them, tidying away some tired-looking flowers which wouldn’t last until Monday. ‘Hi!’ called Ben. ‘It’s us.’

  He was holding hands with Bonnie and looking both proud and sheepish. ‘Can’t stay long. Bonnie’s coming back to mine for lunch.’

  Simmy took a deep breath, forcing herself to remember she was a generation older than them, and therefore simply not allowed to rely on either of them for any emotional succour. But she could reproach Bonnie for failing to abide by her promise to work all morning. ‘I thought you said you’d be here at ten,’ she said.

  ‘Did I? So much happened, I wasn’t sure how we’d left it.’

  What was the good? She heard Melanie’s parting words again, and forced herself to reserve judgement for a while. ‘I was hoping you’d show up, for a number of reasons,’ she said. ‘I wanted to try a theory on you, if you’ve got time.’

  ‘Theory? What about?’ Ben looked puzzled and wary.

  ‘Murder.’

  ‘Golly Moses, Sim. That’s not like you.’

  ‘It is now. Actually, I was wondering if you’d come with me somewhere. But that’s probably not a good idea. I guess I should just phone Moxon and tell him about it.’

  ‘About what? You’re not making any sense.’ He glared at her, and she understood that he, like Melanie, was no longer finding the death of Travis McNaughton the most pressing subject of the moment.

  ‘Bear with me for a minute. Let me list a few facts, okay? First – there’s a man called Eccles, with a son called Raymond. Raymond’s sixteen, and his dad’s been in prison. I don’t know what he did …’

  ‘They were at the funeral,’ said Bonnie. ‘It was Eccles who had the coughing fit.’

  ‘Good! Great!’ Simmy almost clapped her hands with satisfaction. ‘That’s what I hoped to find out. You know them, then?’

  ‘Corinne fostered Ray for a bit. He still pops in now and then to say hello.’

  ‘And his father?’

  Bonnie flushed and hesitated before answering. ‘I don’t know,’ she mumbled. Her gaze was flickering from one display of flowers to another, suggesting rapid thoughts forming behind her eyes.

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t know? What don’t you know?’

  ‘Hey!’ Ben protested. ‘Don’t yell at her.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Bonnie, her head drooping. ‘I’ve just had one or two scary ideas. I think I need to tell you something I did … I knew it would come out eventually. I told Corinne it never does any good to lie to the police. They always find out in the end.’ The precocious wisdom behind these words made Simmy wonder yet again just what had gone so wrong in this young girl’s life.

  ‘You lied to the police?’ Ben stared at his new beloved in horror.

  ‘I won’t do it again. Corinne said we should give him a chance. She’s had words with him about it. He’s getting his act together. I mean – he came to the funeral. That’s his way of trying to be respectable and part of the community and all that stuff.’

  ‘Who?’ Ben almost shouted. ‘Who’s him?’

  ‘The Eccles man,’ said Simmy quietly. ‘You saw his picture on the police computer, but didn’t tell them. He was the man who tried to steal Spike and the other dog. Is that it?’

  Bonnie’s expression was full of shame mixed with admiration. ‘How d’you work that out?’

  ‘It’s true, then?’

  The girl nodded. Ben closed his mouth slowly. ‘Blimey,’ he said.

  ‘And did he steal Roddy? Barbara Hodge’s dog.’

  ‘Seems like it. I mean …’ She made a visible effort. ‘Yes, he did. He gave him back, though. And Corinne made him give the money back, as well. Nobody knows about it.’ She leant forward pleadingly. ‘He put it right again. He’s never going to do it again. When you told me and Melanie about seeing Vic on Monday, and the dead dog on the fells, I just assumed it was Barry Eccles you’d seen, and he
was at it again. Especially when you said there was a boy in the red car, as well. That made me all the more sure. I phoned Corinne to tell her. She’d been doing so much to help him get clean. It felt like a kick in the teeth. I had to tell her.’

  ‘But it wasn’t him at all, was it?’

  Bonnie shook her head like a six-year-old child caught stealing sweets.

  ‘He’s lucky,’ said Simmy. ‘Probably luckier than he can possibly imagine.’

  ‘I’m not getting it,’ said Ben crossly. ‘Where’s this going?’

  ‘I don’t think I should say any more until I’ve spoken to DI Moxon. I owe it to him to keep quiet for now. Thanks, Bonnie. You’ve filled in the picture very nicely.’

  ‘You can’t tell him about it,’ the girl begged. ‘Why would you?’

  Simmy examined her face for any indication that she’d understood all the implications, but remained unsure. ‘I don’t think he’s going to worry too much about a little oversight on your part,’ she said. ‘All you did was make a mistake. It’s not a crime.’

  ‘But Corinne obstructed the course of justice,’ said Ben. ‘She failed to report a crime.’

  ‘True. But again, I don’t think much is going to happen. There are bigger things involved.’

  ‘Your dad?’ Ben hazarded. ‘Is that what you’re bothered about?’ He frowned. ‘Can’t see how that connects, all the same. Wasn’t it all settled yesterday?’

  ‘Not my dad,’ said Simmy. ‘Although I dare say his testimony might have some little part to play when the whole thing comes to court.’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘But maybe it won’t. I have a feeling I’m going to be more useful than him.’ She sighed. ‘Poor man. It’s terrible the way one little thing can make such a huge difference to a person’s sense of well-being.’

  Bonnie was clearly concentrating hard. ‘You mean like Barbara Hodge,’ she said in a small voice.